Only thing is–now that we had thoroughly screwed up Dad's travel plans … we had no idea where we were going or who we were supposed to deliver this thing to. Maybe the marshals trying to intercept us were working on behalf of the rightful owners. And maybe not. How would we know?
Anyway, it was only a hunch. Probably, it was something more mundane–like a bunch of codes–if it was anything at all. Dad said it was a decoy, but what if it wasn't. What if the smugglers thought it would be safer for the decoy to carry the McGuffin?
But even if the monkey had a quantum synchronizer or whatever inside, we'd have no way to tell just by looking at the outside of the card. And if there were some way to open it and look inside, that would be interference, and that would ruin it. So whatever it was, it was never going to be anything more than a hunch to me.
But … maybe I should think about this hunch for a bit.
Suppose we really were carrying something. It would have to be something extremelyvaluable, and the mule carrying it would have to be extremelystupid–I didn't like that part, but it made sense. A mule smart enough to know what he had would be smart enough to sell it to the highest bidder. The trick was to give it to someone who would be happy just to get a ticket offworld and who wouldn't fit the profile of a smuggler. Like a dad going to a colony with his kids. And the damn custody battle made it even better, not worse, because it was just the right kind of distraction. Smugglers didn't take their kids with them. Smugglers didn't have angry wives chasing them. And … if you had that kind of money to invest in that kind of mule, then you also had the kind of money to buy his way through customs or anywhere else.
Wasn't it convenient that Mickey was there? And his mom, the lawyer? And Judge Griffith too? And what about Alexei? Was he part of that plan too? No, he couldn't be. He didn't fit in–or did he? Who was on which side?
Or was I just being paranoid?
Could I even be sure about what Douglas said he knew? No– don't go there, Chigger. That'sreally a shortcut to lunacy.Well, we were in the right place for it. That was for sure.
Along about then, Mickey stopped us and came back to check my oxygen. "I thought so," he said. "I should have made you change tanks at our last break."
"Huh?"
"You've been muttering in my ears for the last three kilometers."
"I'm fine. See?" I flipped the readout up so I could see it. It was flashing a pretty shade of red. "See?"
"Yes, I see–that's very nice. Does the word hypoxiamean anything to you?"
"She was Socrates' wife. I think."
"Wrong." Mickey was fumbling with the front of my bubble. For some reason I couldn't focus clearly.
"Hypoxia was queen of the Amazons," he said. "The Amazons lived in Scythia on the banks of the longest river in the world. They cut off their right breasts with scythes, so as not to interfere with their sword arms. Hercules killed Hypoxia at Troy for not checking her oxygen. Here, try to focus–" He clicked his air hose to the valve in the front of his bubble. Just like I had. An oxygen‑jet.
"Are we stopping somewhere?"
"Yes, we're stopping right here." He pushed himself up close to me and hooked his bubble valve to mine. I couldn't see what he did next, but I started to hear a strange hissing sound. "I'm losing air, I think. I'm hissing."
"Take a deep breath, Chigger. Again. Again. Again. Keep on breathing. That's good. Can you see me now? Look at my hand. How many fingers can you see?"
I blinked. "All of them?"
"Close enough. Look at your readout again."
I looked. "It's flashing red." And then I started to get scared–
"Relax. You're breathing on my air now. Pay attention. We're going to change tanks on your rebreather. If you can't do it, I'll do it for you. Take your hands out of your gloves and I'll reverse them inward and–"
"I can do it." My hands were shaking and I felt suddenly weak and nauseous. "You do it."
"Good boy. You know when to ask for help. Do you know how many people have died because they were too stupid or too proud to ask for help?"
"No. How many?"
"I don't know either. But it's a lot, I can tell you that."
He had his hands inside my bubble now–it looked weird to see my gloves fiddling around at my belt, unclipping hoses and changing their connections. It reminded me of the way Doug used to button me up before taking me out to play. That didn't seem so long ago–but at the same time it seemed very far away. And now it was Mickey. He was acting just like a brother.
"There. How do you feel?"
"Fine."
"Do you have a headache?"
"Uh‑uh." I touched my head to see if it was still there. My hand touched something else. A furry leg. "Is there a monkey sitting on my head?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then I'm not delusional."
"But no headache?"
"No. If anything, I feel giddy. A little light‑headed. Like I could fly away."
"That's not good either." Mickey reached in and fiddled with the settings on my rebreather.
"What are you doing?"
"Just making some adjustments. This should do it. There." He pulled his hands out of my gloves and disconnected our two bubbles. We were separated again. He secured his rebreather tube and looked across at me. "All right, you good now?"
"Yeah." I was fumbling my hands back into my gloves.
"You sure? I've gotta go check Douglas and Bobby–"
"I'm good." But I grabbed his hand anyway. "Mickey?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He gave my hand a quick squeeze in return, then hurried across to Douglas.
PAYING INTENTION
After that, we were all a lot more careful.
I finally got itwhat Mickey meant.
It was about staying conscious.What some people called paying intention.
Dad once tried to tell me about this music teacher he'd had–the one who said you couldn't be a musician if you didn't practice at least three hours a day. He used to tell Dad that an excuse was not equal to a result. What you said you wanted was irrelevant; what you actually accomplished demonstrated your real intentions.
I never liked that discussion. It sounded like hard work to me and I couldn't see the reward in it. I always thought you should practice your music because you liked it, not because somebody said you had to. But I'd always listened politely, because it was always so important to Dad to give the Pay intention, this is how the world works!speech. It's not enough to pay attention,he would say, over and over. You have to pay i*n*t*e*n*t*i*o*nas well.
And there was all the rest of it too: Volume is no substitute for brains. Better to keep your trap shut and be thought a fool than to shoot yourself in the foot while it's still in your mouth. Don't burn your bridges before your chickens are hatched.
Every so often … I would realize he'd been right. He wasn't just talking to prove he knew better than me. This was one of those times. Well, why hadn't I paid intention when he'd told me about paying intention? Because … it's one of those stupid things you have to bump into yourself, and hope you survive long enough to make good use of the lesson.
So I concentrated on every bounce, every hop, every skip–and wondered if this is what it had been like for Harrison "Jack" Schmitt, bouncing around on the moon and trying to collect rocks without killing himself.